Climbing Reichenbach Falls
by Nefertiri's Handmaiden
Summary: "John sat down on the mattress, back straight, and stared at the opposite wall. He scrubbed one hand over his jaw, feeling the two-day stubble. Well, he thought. Well, here he was again." John weathers the aftermath of the fall. Appearances by Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mike Stamford, and Mary.
1. Chapter 1: The Fall

Climbing Reichenbach Falls

Nefertiri's Handmaiden

Disclaimer: Don't own "Sherlock," blah blah blah.

Summary: "John sat down on the mattress, back straight, and stared at the opposite wall. He scrubbed one over his jaw, feeling the two-day stubble. Well, he thought. Well, here he was again." John weathers the aftermath of the fall.

* * *

Chapter One: The Fall

* * *

The night after… well. The night after, John stayed in the hospital. They wanted him there to monitor his concussion.

Greg came to sit with him for half an hour or so in the evening. He entered looking nearly tired and haggard as John felt, and sat a few feet away from John's bed in a beige chair with a cracked vinyl cushion. Neither man spoke. They didn't even look at each other. Finally, Greg sighed, stood, reached out a hand to pat John's shoulder and then thought better of it, and walked away.

He couldn't sleep, though the head wound was making him groggy. All he could do is stare at the ceiling. In his head, it happened over and over: Sherlock stood high, high above him on the roof and said things John knew to be lies, and then Sherlock was falling, his legs trying to walk in the air, and then John was moving and he fell, too, his head cracking to the asphalt, but not like Sherlock's, no, and there was blood oozing, oozing onto the sidewalk, so much blood, too much, and John reached out for his best friend's wrist and there was no pulse.

* * *

In the morning, the doctors told him he could go home. Mrs. Hudson came to fetch him. He went to the bathroom to change into clothes now three days old while she waited for him and was silent as she fretted all the way back to Baker Street how she couldn't believe it, how she just couldn't believe it, not Sherlock, not dear, dear Sherlock.

She walked up the stairs with him. He entered the living room and came to a sudden halt, eyes running over the skull on the mantle, the books and the papers cluttering every horizontal surface, the violin and bow left carelessly on the sofa, the music stand with its yellowing sheet music behind the black leather chair, the dust motes floating in the streams of light from the windows that looked out onto busy Baker Street. No long gray coat flung over the desk chair. No navy blue cotton scarf.

Had it been only the night before last that he'd stood right here in this room, arms crossed, remarking on the injustice and lunacy of Sherlock in handcuffs? Had it been only the night before last that he'd hauled back and walloped Scotland Yard brass square in the nose?

Mrs. Hudson had gone quiet. John took off his jacket and didn't bother to hang it up, simply dropping it on the floor. He picked his way to his chair, because that was what he did in this room, sat in his chair, and slumped down. Mrs. Hudson, in a display that was odd even for them, followed, knelt in front of him and, as though he was a little boy and she his nanny, removed his shoes and socks. She stood, leaned over, patted his face, and left him alone.

He did not know how long he sat there in the tomb that had such a short time ago been his home, staring at the fine black leather of Sherlock's empty chair. It had to have been hours. If you were to have asked him later - and Ella would - what he thought during this time, he would not have been able to clearly express it. Some of it was memories: Sherlock perched on the chair like a tall, odd bird, Sherlock picking at his violin as he glared at his brother, Sherlock dressed in a blue silk robe, gazing into space with vacant eyes for hours and hours as he thought. Some of it was Sherlock falling, falling, falling, and then not falling, lying on the ground, and the black curls he was so vain about soaked with that red red blood. Some of it was numbness in his feet, in his head.

At last, John stood and slowly made his way to his room. He packed his army duffle with a few changes of clothes and grabbed his toothbrush and razor. He went back downstairs, kissed Mrs. Hudson on the forehead, and shut the door of 221b behind him as he walked away.

John found himself in a small and cheap but clean hotel room with a single twin bed shoved against the wall. He didn't really remember the walk here or asking for a room, everything since the fall a blur. Straight-backed, he sat down on the mattress and stared at the opposite wall. He scrubbed one hand over his jaw, feeling the two-day stubble.

Well, he thought. Well, here he was again.

It was then that he hunched forward until his elbows rested on his knees. His face in his hands, he began to cry.

* * *

Mycroft called to inform him when the funeral would be. John had to brave Baker Street once more to get his best black suit, donning it with military precision. He looked himself in the mirror as he finished straightening his tie and cuff links. He squared his shoulders, lifted his chin.

He escorted Mrs. Hudson to the funeral home, offering her his arm as they exited the cab. The parking lot was full, the viewing room packed, the gleaming mahogany casket closed.

Client after client approached him, shaking his hand, saying they didn't care what the damn papers said, they knew who Mr. Sherlock Holmes was and they wouldn't ever forget what he did for them: livelihoods saved, lives, families. John said thank you, yes, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from saying what he did for you pales in comparison to what he did for me.

The clients, he knew, saw him only as Sherlock's sidekick. And perhaps that was all he'd ever been, John thought - to these people and perhaps even to Sherlock himself. But Sherlock had been his best friend. None of these people could claim that.

Mycroft approached him and asked him to speak. John opened his mouth, closed it and then shook his head. There were too many words in his head that needed saying to say any of them at all.

Besides, it was long ingrained in John to suffer in silence.

John left Mrs. Hudson at Baker Street, declining her offer of tea and sadly shaking his head when she urged him to come home. He returned to his hotel, loosening his tie as he walked and shrugging off his jacket as he entered his room, throwing it haphazardly on the desk chair. Then he lay down on his bed without taking his shoes off and stared at the wall.

For three days, he did not leave the room. He shed the remainder of his suit on the floor and didn't bother to change his boxers. He did not turn the TV on, did not look at the Internet. There were knocks on his door the first and second day, a shrill call that it was housekeeping, and he shouted not now and the knocks stopped. He slept irregularly and fitfully. His phone rang and rang and rang, and he didn't answer it; didn't even look to see who the calls were from.

On the fourth day, he looked at himself in the mirror, unshaven with dark circles under his eyes, and recognized something familiar in his eyes; something scary. He called Ella's office.

* * *

Get up, John's alarm blared at him. Get in the shower, demanded a voice in his head that sounded vaguely like his drill sergeant, get shaved, get dressed. Get your umbrella. Get some breakfast, another voice in his head reminded him, this one with the matronly trill of Mrs. Hudson. His voice was harsh with disuse when he ordered eggs and bacon at the small pub across the street from the hotel. Get a cab. Sign in with the girl at the desk. Wait. Try not to think.

Ella called him in to her office. He shook her hand as he entered, made thoughtless pleasantries, sat down in the chair that he had been so accustomed to, once. She sat across from him. The folding doors in her office usually let in bright sunshine, but today it was gray and raining. John wished he found the sound of the raindrops on the glass soothing. Neither of them spoke for several minutes as John settled himself and tried to remember how to do this.

Finally, she asked him why today.


	2. Chapter 2: The Climb

Chapter Two: The Climb

* * *

John got to work. He increased his hours at the hospital clinic first to three days a week, then four, then five, then six for weeks, then back down to five when the administrator noticed the hours he was clocking. He got up in the morning, rode the Tube in and stayed at the clinic until someone told him to go the hell home, John.

* * *

Two months after Sherlock… well. Two months after, John's phone rung to tell him he had a text from Mike Stamford, asking him 'round for dinner with Mike and his wife. John considered blowing him off, knowing Mike wouldn't take it personally, but then decided to accept simply because he knew he should.

John arrived at the Stamfords' precisely on time, carefully groomed so it looked like he was eating well enough and getting enough sleep and carrying a bottle of wine.

Mike must have explained John's situation to his wife, Angela, because neither of them asked John how he was when they welcomed him enthusiastically at the door, simply telling him how wonderful it was to see him, and neither of them brought up Sherlock all night. Angela was a bang-up cook so dinner was delicious and the two of them kept the conversation going throughout the meal, asking little of John but his company.

Finally Angela shooed them to the den for Scotch while she finished up dessert. Mike urged John down in a high-backed chair next to the fireplace, handing him a full glass, then settled down on the adjacent couch. Mike didn't speak. Neither did John.

It was, John thought as he sincerely thanked Angela for the meal and put on his coat, the most pleasant evening he'd had since… well. Since.

* * *

Greg called him on the week of the six-month anniversary of the fall, informing John that he was going to take flowers to the grave, and would John accompany him? John wanted to tell him no because he refused to become emotional in front of another man, but he also felt there was no emotion left in him waiting to get out. He was all everything-ed out.

They met at the cemetery. Greg's face was solemn as the day of the funeral when he shook John's hand and said it was good to see him. John jerked a nod.

They stood silently in front of the black headstone. John found himself thinking somewhat morbidly that Sherlock would have liked it: It was glossy, elegant, sophisticated - if headstones could be sophisticated. No-nonsense and yet striking. It was how Sherlock would have wanted to be remembered. Mycroft had chosen well.

For the first time, John wondered why their parents hadn't been at the funeral.

They stood there for 20 minutes or more, not speaking. John's eyes were dry, his expression slightly vacant. Finally, Greg clapped him on the back and said they should go pour one out, yeah?

They went to a pub Greg knew. Tall, old-fashioned, stained-glass windows cast red and green pools on the floor and John thought the large bar was real mahogany. The middle of the day, the pub was mostly quiet, just a suited man and woman at the other end of the room munching on sandwiches and discussing sales figures and another lone man alone at the bar, hunched over his pint.

It wasn't until they had their own glasses in front of them that Greg spoke, asking John if he'd ever heard about the first time he'd ever worked with Sherlock. John said shook his head. Greg launched into the story, telling of a mysterious text message and a tall, curly-haired man who appeared at a crime scene and the even more mysterious call he'd gotten from a Mr. Mycroft Holmes who had a security clearance code Greg had only ever heard about in rumors. Sherlock, Greg explained, had seemed right loony and he was an arse, but he had also been spot on about everything. So.

Eventually, they shook hands again in parting, Greg getting into his car and heading back to the Yard while John took the Tube back to his flat.

It was in a less posh part of town, but that was a given because John needed something he could afford without someone to go halves. It was modern, bright and hospital neat. John hated it, but he hated just about everything these days, so what did that matter?

He reached down his bottle of whiskey and unscrewed the top, took a single, long pull and put it away.

He had tried getting drunk before and it hadn't done a damn thing. Either way, the world was dull and gray and he was alone.

* * *

Once in a while, he noticed a CCTV camera swivel slowly to follow his progress down the street. He never knew if this comforted him or made him feel worse.

But then again, how could he possibly feel worse?

* * *

It got easier. John knew it would. It always does and the military had taught him perseverance besides. He slept better, ate better, sometimes went days without thinking about Sherlock. Slowly, his sessions with Ella came to a close again.

Still, he couldn't pick up the phone to call Mrs. Hudson.

* * *

A year and two months after Sherlock fell, a new nurse started at the clinic. She was assigned to John after his previous helper decided she wanted to stay home with her new son. John found he liked the sharp-witted Miss Morstan quite a lot. What he admired most about her was that she was exceptionally competent. She handled their occasional emergency with calm proficiency and she kept the best records John had ever seen, even during his time in the army.

He had to gather his courage to ask her out, thinking it had been such a long time, and was beyond pleased when she smiled that easy smile, her teeth slightly crooked, and agreed.

John took Mary to the hospital charity carnival for their first date. The sun was bright above them as they strolled the midway, the pleasant weight of her hand on his forearm. It was loud and busy, clowns dressed in bright clothes and carnies wearing bored expressions. The air smelled of too-sugary lemonade and sausages on the grill. Mary looked lovely in a purple sundress with black patent-leather Mary Janes on her delicate, pale feet.

She pointed to the sharpshooter game booth and he grinned at her, taking her challenge. He could tell she was impressed when he shouldered the small pellet gun with practiced ease and hit every single target, even the moving ones, in quick succession, winning her the largest teddy bear they had. He put on his most innocent expression to ask her whether he'd mentioned he'd been in the army. She slapped his arm playfully, called him a swindler, and laughed. It made him laugh, too.

She made him hold the teddy bear for her, which was a bit of a brush to his pride, but he got over it when she offered to feed him chips because his arms were full. They both grinned when she smeared ketchup on his face after he made a smart remark and then gently wiped it away with a flimsy paper napkin.

She leaned up against his side as they rode the Tube back to her flat. As he dropped her at her door, he waffled over whether to steal a kiss. She made the decision for him when she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. He was slightly stunned as she ordered him to take her out again, said goodbye, and shut the door between them. He stared at the closed door for several seconds before turning to walk away, thinking how lovely and blue her eyes were.

This, he thought to himself, would be an adventure.

As he started back off to his flat, a spring in his step, he found himself looking forward to telling Sherlock about her. It stopped him in his tracks.

No one had warned him grief was cyclical; that he'd have to deal with losing his best friend again every time his life changed.

* * *

John still went to Sherlock's grave once a month or so. He stood, stared at the headstone for several minutes, and then told Sherlock about Mary. He had fallen in love with her, he said, in a way that was different than anything else he'd experienced. She had settled in his heart like she had always been there, he explained. Suddenly, it seemed there was color in the world again.

Sherlock couldn't hear him, of course, but John thought to himself that may not matter because even if he'd been alive, he probably wouldn't have actually been listening; he had no interest in feelings.

* * *

John didn't often deal with children in his practice, but occasionally he filled in for Dr. Harrison in pediatrics. He discovered he got on well with the children. When he shared this with Mary, she said it was because they liked his warm, gentle hands and steady voice and eyes that were never annoyed even when they cried.

Once, as he carefully inspected Katie Jacobs' throat as the girl recovered from an infection, she started giggling around the tongue depressor. When he asked the 4-year-old what that was for, then, she said she thought he had a funny nose. A funny nose, he demanded, putting on his best affronted expression and winking discretely at Katie's mother when she exclaimed the girl's name and apologized, embarrassed. Katie assured him that yes, indeed, it was a funny nose but she liked it ever so much because it was just like her daddy's. Except, she noted with aplomb, her daddy had whiskers under his nose, and maybe Dr. Watson should grow some and then he could be a daddy, too. He'd be a fine one, she assured him.

John grew in a moustache. When Mary laughed and asked why, he simply shrugged.

* * *

A year and seven months after Sherlock fell, Mary noticed the lease renewal papers laying unsigned on the glass coffee table at his flat. Wrapped in his tartan bathrobe, her hair still wet from his shower, she took his cup of tea from his hands and set it on top of the papers. She lowered herself onto his lap, placing one soft hand on his neck, and told him to let the lease run out. It was several moments before he realized she was suggesting he move in with her. He blinked twice, cleared his throat to make sure it was steady, and told her all right.

Two weeks later, John unloaded several large cardboard boxes and his old green army duffle from the boot of Mary's car. As the lift took him up to his new home, the fluorescent lights slightly too bright and bland music playing on a loop, he thought about the last time he'd moved in with someone. It seemed like many years ago; it had really been less than four. It had changed his life. When Mary kissed him in between hanging his checked shirts next to her cotton blouses in the closet, he got the breathless, excited feeling in his chest that this would, too.

* * *

John asked Mary to accompany him to the cemetery for the two-year anniversary of Sherlock's fall. She was surprised, he could tell. She knew he still went fairly often, but he had never taken her along and she had never invited herself.

Mary followed John's lead as she drove to the cemetery and remained silent. She had asked about Sherlock before and listened carefully when he spoke, telling halting stories, but he was glad that at this moment she let him keep to himself.

He gave her curt directions through the cemetery and told her where to park. She followed him to Sherlock's grave. Mary didn't explain herself when she bent down to pick up a bouquet of dead flowers from in front of the headstone and took it away to the bin on the other side of the graveyard. He realized vaguely that she was giving him a few moments of privacy.

He didn't notice her return until she slid her hand into his and stood at his side, her shoulder gently brushing his. Sherlock had once told him he had a grand gift for silence and it made him an invaluable companion. John found Mary had this gift, too, when it mattered.

She didn't make the grief go away. He hadn't expected her to. She wasn't his old partner. But she was his new one.

Eventually, John turned to her and took her other hand.

"He would have liked you," he said.

Later, Mary would remember this as the moment she realized John was going to propose.

-Fin-


End file.
